


The beautiful marks

by watermelloon (linumlea)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 16:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8168281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linumlea/pseuds/watermelloon
Summary: The marks appear when you touch your soulmate's skin.





	

The bell above the doors chimes and Keith looks up from his desk. The sunlight pouring through the windows is in deep contrast to the shadows lurking in the shop and for a moment, until the woman steps closer, prevent him from seeing her clearly.

He sees a flash come through her face - a bit of disgust, perhaps, at the smells lingering under the air fresheners. This is normal. Her face smooths almost instantly and Keith gets up.

“Welcome,” he says. She blinks at him, having trouble adjusting from the brightness to dimness. Finally she smiles a tight smile that disappears as fast as it came.

“Hello,” she says; her voice is quiet. “I would like to ask you a few questions about your offer.”

“Please, take a seat.”

She voices quite a lot of concerns and asks tens of questions, but when Keith answers them calmly and without unnecessary details, she seems satisfied. As he speaks, Keith observes her. Her long, ink-black hair is pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, above the high collar of her modest, black dress. A mother in mourning, she says so herself.

“My son was a soldier, you know,” she says and seems disturbed that she let the words escape. “He died at home, though.”

Keith sighs almost inaudibly when the first tear rolls down her cheek. She wipes it instantly, her eyes wide with anger directed most probably at herself. She takes a tissue though, when Keith offers her a box.

He takes the necessary details from her and she gets up to leave. Her left hand catches his eye, hidden under the desk before, and he smiles - the mark is there, as clear as a day.

He wonders if he could ask her about it, but she is clearly not in the mood for that. He bids her farewell as she disappears behind the doors. The bell chimes again and silence falls on Keith’s shoulders again.

He sits back in the mildly uncomfortable chair. The marks are like flowers blooming under the skin, along with a flutter of a distressed heart that tries to beat like one with the other, hidden in a cage of another’s chest. Or so was he told by his friends who have already found their love.

Keith’s body is clear of them. Sometimes he thinks his soulmate doesn’t exist at all. It happens, sometimes, not always sad. You had to want to make it sad for it to be like that.

Keith tries not to wallow in it unnecessarily. He feels lonely sometimes, sure, envy like a pang of a little needle somewhere under his ribs, but he tells himself that it’s fine. And it is.

Once in a while, lying sleepless at night, he lets himself wonder what it would feel like. To hold that hand and to feel it. He was told it’s not really painful, but not entirely painless either. It left a quiet ache, a longing. He was told that that ache goes away easily when the marks of both people touch.

He desires that ache. Sometimes.

Keith shakes his head, willing the reverie away. There is no point in thinking about it; he has a job to do.

 

Keith snaps his gloves in place. The room is filled with a lot of smells, but he only smells the mint paste he rubbed under his nose. He is used to his job, but it doesn’t mean he loves all the aspects of it.

Embalming is an art. The art performed on a body. Preserves and treats and fixes, if necessary.

“Mr. Shirogane,” he reads off the chart. Out of habit, he looks at the hands and blinks at the sight of metal palm sticking out of the sleeve of the shirt. Of course, the woman told him about that; he forgot. He looks at the other hand, but it has no marks. Pity.

He sets down to unclothe the body. The metal arm reaches all the way up to the shoulder, muscled and scarred. He doesn’t recall the woman saying anything about how that happened so he lets his imagination wander. She said he was a soldier, so Keith imagined the battlefield.

He touches the cold skin briefly and flinches.

At loss for words, he looks at the marks spreading, twirling, blooming under the dead skin, flowers and serpents and symbols, until they stop, just short of the neck. He doesn’t understand.

He feels something growing in his stomach and his throat. He stumbles back to the chair behind him and hangs his head between his knees, forcing himself to breathe, once and twice and thrice and…

He closes his eyes and brings his hand in front of his face. He chokes at the sight of the same markings that adorn the skin of the dead man that lays on the embalming table.

He sits like that, lips parted, staring, for what feels like ages and he gets up and finishes his job because it is his job and he must do it and he mustn’t fail and he must prepare and he must hide and.

He has skin-colored gloves in his desk and he wears them when they come for the body. The marks on the shoulder are invisible under the shirt and the nice suit that fits so nicely the full frame of the body, but he feels them. He feels them burning at the bottom of his conscience. No one will notice them, ever.

He isn’t supposed to close just yet, but he can’t bear it so he scribbles something on the sheet of paper and hangs it in the window.

Once at home, Keith takes off his shoes and hangs his coat. He throws the keys into the bowl by the door.

He stops by the door to his bedroom and he lets grief wash over him. Curled into the sheets, a tight cocoon, he lets out sobs and cries and choking sounds that strangle him and make his heart beat out of rhythm.

He wakes near midnight with his throat hurting and his eyes burning. He is almost fine.

 

It’s a month later when one his friends catches him without his glove. Their eyes lit up and they grin so wide they almost shine.

“So? So? Come on, you have to tell me everything!” they say. Keith looks at the marks on their hand and feels envy that he doesn’t want to feel.

He hastily pulls out his glove and puts it on, not looking his friend in the eye. He turns away.

“There is nothing to talk about. It was a client.”

“Oh,” he can hear a bit confusion in his friend’s voice. “But, you have talked and all, right?”

He looks at them. He feels so heavy and alone.

Their eyes widen with comprehension. “Oh, god,” they say.

Keith rubs the prickly skin on his hand. He is almost fine with how his heart aches.

**Author's Note:**

> [thecurtainfalls.tumblr.com](http://thecurtainfalls.tumblr.com/)


End file.
